May 2007

Today is the start of my first tour of England. To put it into context, i have been gigging pretty much constantly since December 2000 and have never stepped outside of Scotland on a musical venture. But when I went solo, I took things into my own hands and booked three gigs in England for May 2007.

So, equipped with my bag. Suitcase and new guitar. Since November 2006, I’ve been using my friend Michael’s Fender acoustic. He’d been generous (and busy) enough not to notice I’d had it for more than six months. Knowing I had this tour coming up, I bit the bullet and invested in a new acoustic that I christened Willzyx, after the Orca whale in South Park.

I left Paisley to catch my 10am train London Kings Cross. Jord came up to help me with stuff and generally scope out what mornings look like. I bit farewell to Scotland. The train took the strangest route. We left Glasgow, went across the central belt to Edinburgh Haymarket. From there, the train snaked it’s way down through the hills to the borders and onwards to England. This route is simply amazing. As I passed over the border, I noticed we were on the coast and all that was below me was either beach or sea. The drops are epic in scale, the sun is glorious, not a cloud in the sky. Travelling by train is the best way to see the British Isles. There’s no distractions of other cars or pedestrians getting in the way. You do need to put up with idle chatter and ticket inspections every now and then but nothing an Epic Soundtrack* won’t cure.For the majority of the journey, I was sat myself, reading 'Kingdom of Fear' by Hunter S. Thompson. Until somewhere in the middle of England when my worst enemy, the Yuppie sat down next to me. Two of them. Limp-wristed, upper class, work-obsessed scumbags. So for three hours all i hear through the din of my i-pod is facts and figures about accounts and why public school are so much better than state schools, why having a degree at 22 is the place to be etc. The conversation was only punctuated with phrases like 'Super', 'Ya' and 'Perrier Water'. The man, roughly 42, ginger but balding, slightly overweight. His voice lets a hint of campness shine through. He’s obviously holds high status in his company but his dress sense suggests he has no social life and knows nothing of life outside work. My thoughts are justified when he mentions Coldplay. The woman is in her late 30’s, far too thin. Dressed in what I think they call a power suit, I bet she goes to the gym at least five times a week, drinks vodka straight and engages in a host of meaningless relationships to disguise the fact she hates herself more than she hates her friends. The man obviously fancies the woman and I think she probably uses his to get further whatever corporation they work for. It’s amazing what you can learn from a second hand conversation heard through gaps in songs.

Now, I'm not the type of person to insight a class war, but the yuppies should be forced into whatever burgh of London they come from and stay in the comfort of their Land Rover/Audi/sports coupe until the end of the world. They would probably enjoy it. They talked in their weasel-thin, nasal accents about work for the full 3 hours. Files, figures, facts, gossip. I mean they must take this journey every day and talk about the same things. They don’t know anything outside of their own life exists. They get off a couple of stops before mine, thank fuck.

Anyway, I arrive in London Kings Cross. I saw the new Arsenal stadium which is mighty impressive. I work my way through the station and end up in Camden Town in the middle of rush hour. And unbeknown to me, that was not going to be an hour of progressive rock. Some tit set fire to a railway line somewhere in London which made loads more yuppies crawl the streets like vultures. Oh, and i forgot to mention that is 27% here. SO WARM. I am Scottish, heat above 10% is like a oven on fire in a volcano to me.

I have to make a trip through Camden from one station to another. This new Camden is not like the one I remember from the mid-90’s. It’s awful shiny. There’s a lot a offices and taxis and stuff. I haven’t seen anyone who looks remotely connected to Britpop yet, which is a big let down. I imagined that I’d see Graham Coxon being run over by Bonehead and Guigsy in a stolen golf cart. I’m later informed by my friend Victoria that Coxon don’t drink no more and instead he downs pints of Red Bull. So yeah, I make my way across London with my cargo. And I’m wearing a suit jacket. Not the smartest tool in the box. I think I actually just saw steam coming off of a pavement.

It’s a strange one being here just under a year after all that terrorism business. There’s a lot of shiftiness and polis with guns in train stations. Unnerving. I’m not the biggest fan of guns. I remember the day of the terrorist attacks in London. I had to go to work and put up with the usual unhelpful racial slurs from security and customers towards our Asian employees. Really the thing you need to hear when the shopping centre you work at is on high alert.
Anyways, I get to the train station, find out where I’m meant to go from my cockney ticket man. We engage in racial stereotypes for a while:

’Here wee man, whit train dae ah get ti get masel doon ti Guildford?’

‘Yeh Jock, take dem fackin’ apples and pears daan to platfam fwree batt dant fackin’ git own dat twain gaan daan to saaf ov th wawter. If you git lost, git on the dog an bown an fone the queen muvva.’

I got my train. It was so full that the commuters were all jammed shoulder to shoulder. But not a single word was shared throughout the entire hour long journey. So depressing. These people must see each other every day. I’d hate to end up like this. I end up in Guildford at about 6. I’m staying with my friend Kat for a few days. We know each other from college in Paisley so it’s good to catch up. Guildford is a nice place, very clean and middle class. It’s your typical commuter/college town. The average Guildfordian probably never sees much of the town, they are either in college/uni for 23 hours of the day or in London keeping the pound safe. But it’s a nice place, a bit like St Andrews in Scotland.

Kat’s house is uber warm, a bit like everywhere in the south of England right now. I meet the sofa that is going to be serving as my bed for the next three days. We chill out, I’m not hungry, too warm and tired to eat.

The place i am playing tonight is a pub called The Tup. Nice wee place and it’s showing the European Cup Final tonight (I think Liverpool must be a guilty pleasure here), so the gig gets moved outside, for the better. It's a warm night, plus the smoke doesn't get in my lungs out here. I am so glad we have a smoking ban back home.Gig goes well despite breaking a string on the first song (Note to self: Set fire to Stagg). It’s a really nice night. Very relaxed, clear sky, lots of stars. Quiet sky, except for the occasional flight from Heathrow. I wonder where they’re all going. The other acts playing are quite good. They all seem very mellow, as if Gomez are still big news in Surrey. I notice that i am the loudest, most aggressive player here tonight even though I’m as tired as a tired dog on sleeping pills. I then have an in depth conversation with Kat about the reasoning behind this. It seems my Scottish, working class background seeps out through sheer RAGE when I play…I am so tired i feel like i will vomit soon.

Day 2

Still in Guildford, woke on a sofa in an unfamiliar house…Kat makes tea. No breakfast, I’m still no eating which is unusual. Today was a mellow day, spent time jamming in the house, watching Quantum Leap, Doctors and Murder She Wrote. The English like how I say ‘Murder’ (pronounced m-urr-dh-urrrrrrrr). Took a walk up the town, I had to buy guitar strings after last night’s disaster. I saw Guy from the band Reuben at his work in the shopping centre. Such an amazing drummer. The music industry is fucked if an artist like him has to work in a shopping centre to pay the bills. We do a bit of food shopping, then head home. I eat a couple of Rustlers burger. Was totally epic as per but I’m still not eating properly. I think this is what they call the ‘Tour Diet’. I’m taking tips from my dad, who travels a lot and drinking about a metric tonne of water to keep my mind working.

Later that night we decided to go see a band called The Warren Suicide. About 10 of us head up to the gig which is at a venue called the Boiler Room, which is a cool place. Sort of like a post-industrial Glasgow Barfly but with better beer and nice toilets. The band are a German synth band. A bit strange. They have a song about sex with 12 year old girls. They are pretty good, I tried in vain to talk to the keyboardist but she couldn’t understand my accent. Need to get rid of the arrrs. I end up very drunk due to tiredness and potent continental lager. Dancing ensued. Loads of people on pills down here. That’s something that doesn’t interest me. I need no additional substance to make me dance like an arsehole. Being drunk in a venue playing thumping techno adds a sort of surrealism to my vision. Colours blend into each other, shapes move with ease and the mind thinks it’s a wicked idea to try and dance with girls.

We had a long walk through the town post-gig trying to find something to eat. We end up at a 24 hour garage where I purchase more microwaveable food produce. It’s actually nice knowing how safe it is to walk about round here being Scottish. Some middle aged guy shouted something incomprehensible but backed off when he heard the accent. I must admit, the west of Scotland accent is hilariously aggressive even when being complimentary. I remember doing a gig with an old band when a guy came up and said ‘Ah fuckin’ love yur band. It’s fuckin; brutal. Yur so heavy, it makes me want ti punch ma maw, an ah love ma maw’. The old saying goes ‘There’s more fun at funeral in Glasgow than a wedding in Edinburgh’. It’s so quiet down here. No drunks singing, no fighting or threats or wee neds driving past at 120 miles an hour in a suped up Corsa only to smash into a stationary object further up the street. Refreshing.

Back on the sofa, we watched ’28 Days Later’. I remember when that film was about to come out, my mate Mark and I got it on pirate VHS (it was like 2002). I fell asleep about half an hour into it then slated it for five years. So I finally saw it all the way through. Good film, the chap thingmy Murphy from Batman Begins is great in it. Got to sleep about 3am. The sun was just coming up with sucked cause it was too warm to put anything over my head.

Day 3

Woke up at 8.30am for a 10am train to Manchester. Took the scenic route to the train station, which was cool. Finally got to see this place in the daytime. Shame to leave it behind so soon. Get to the station, say my farewells to Kat.

The trains in England are very different than in Scotland. In the homeland, people seem to get punished for wanting to travel. If you want to go anywhere after 11pm, you can’t. If you want to pay with anything over the correct change it’s like your holding a gun to the ticket guy’s kids head while pissing on his car by the reaction you get. Anyway…
Leaving Surrey on the train is very much like being in the Reuben discography. I saw so many signs for Aldershot, Camberley, Blackwater etc…

It’s a good train journey to Manchester. I pass through Reading, Oxford and the likes. It’s a very sunny day, classy, sitting a train with coffee and a book, looking out into some fantastic countryside. It good to put an image to these names that have been in my mind since I was a kid. Reading is a very quiet so much so I can’t imagine for three days every August it becomes a beacon for every student, metalhead and punk in the country (well, those who can get tickets). My generic music player runs out of battery about an hour into the journey. This means I’m just left with a few books and a window for company. It passes quite quickly. Any sort of musical journey gives me a strange sense of anxiety, euphoria, tension and slight OCD. I become obsessive about being places on time, I’m already very punctual which means if I’m meant to be at a gig at 7, I’ll get there at 5.45. I need to know every detail about anything to do with the gig. If I’m on a train, I’ll usually have to store my guitar in the hold above the seats. Even though it’s secure, I’ll have to check it every half hour and my eyes fly to it with every jolt sudden of movement real or otherwise. I have to check my bag every 5 minutes to make sure that the last time I checked by bag that my tickets didn’t fall out. I can feel my phone vibrating when it isn’t. I’m paranoid that I’m going to miss a call telling me the gig has been cancelled or my hotel has been double booked etc etc etc… This goes on for ages until I something distracts my brain.

But when the wheels of the train start and I see the country start to fly by, it sets off my mind in so many different tangents. It’s great, like I’m actually making the most of my moments in history. There’s so many days in our lives when we just sit around achieving nothing so to be on the road means so much.

I arrive in Manchester at 13.45pm. I pass through Station Approach, which is like a massive bridge which passes through the outskirts and eventually leads into the city centre. Station Approach is also the title of my favourite Elbow song. On the way over the bridge, I got to see all the little Coronation Street houses before I saw the industrial skyline that reminds me of Glasgow. Piccadilly station is very nice, got the good combo of the new modern glass front and the classic old brickwork. Uber-nice.

So I failed to find my hotel within five minutes. By this point, I was so tired, things were getting fuzzy, so I jumped in a taxi, who took me to my hotel. Checking in to hotels as a musician is harsh, especially when you don’t have a credit card which some people view as an essential. The girl-woman at the desk was not buying that I was a legitimate human being. I have to say, in retrospect, she may have had reason to be suspicious. I hadn’t slept properly in three days, smelt terrible and had a sticker on my guitar case that read ‘I Love Goblin Cock’.

As I got into my room (terrific view, right over the city), I hit the hay straight away. I was not asleep for long cause I had to get up, shower and find a venue on the other side of town. I got ready and took a wander out of the hotel to see where I would be eating and drinking for the next 3 days. Turns out the hotel is just off of the main part of the city. There’s a punk venue at the top the street along with a pizza hut and a supermarket. I get a pizza and head back to the hotel. My room is looking out on to somewhere that looks really familiar but I can’t put my finger on what it is. There’s a railway arch, some garages and Manchester Evening News Arena which I recognise from a Manics live video and an episode of That Peter Kay Thing.

I eat pizza, restring guitar and watch news 24. I’ve a certain calling for all hours information. It’s like a comforting drone in the background. I suppose it’s just to keep the room from being silent.
There’s an internet café in the lobby of the hotel so I check my e-mails which I haven’t done for several days. My inbox looks like a bomb site. So much junk. I wonder how they got my address. I print out my maps and jump a taxi to the venue. I’m playing the M19 bar in Levenshulme. There’s a bus that runs to it but this my first time here, so I just get a taxi. The maps say it should be 5 miles from my hotel to the venue, my taxi driver hears the accent and takes a very long route before being chastised for being a prick. I settle the fair and go into the venue. I’m playing at what is known as an acoustic fest. It’s a bit of a love-in for folk singers and wannabe poets. I’m neither. I always stress that I’m a guy who plays songs, not a folk singer but I seem to get lumbered on bills with Dylan lovers.

So I check in with the guy what runs the venue. I’m early (see above) so I sit down with a beer and a book trying to keep out the way of the smoke. The smoking ban hasn’t come into action in England yet and it’s pretty grim coming into a room full of smokers after a year of nicotine-free bliss in Glasgow. I was out at the Cathouse in Glasgow the night the smoking ban came into effect. People were really acting like children that night, including myself. People were trying to smoke an entire 20 deck in half an hour whilst I was grassing in anyone smoking. It really is a disgusting habit.

I was one of the last acts on because of the novelty of me being from Scotland. ‘laydees an’ gentilemeyn, pleeezee welcome Kenny Leckie, ALL THE WAY FROM SCOTLAND! - cue hushed but shock-ed whispers as if Batman or Fred West had just walked in. So I do my wee set, playing a few classic hits as well as a few covers. It’s really strange playing in a city where no-one knows who you are. I’ve been so used to having at least one person have a mild inkling about who I was, but here not one single person knew me. Which wasn’t half bad. It meant I could lie quite a lot as being leaniant with the truth is one of my hobbies. I was trying to gauge how many people were actually paying attention whilst I was playing. It led to some pretty far out thoughts during one song where I think lack of sleep finally creeped me out too much. I was thinking about the people in the front row and started to imagine me at the back of the room looking in at me playing. Strange.

Anyway, I finished up, talked to a few people, sold some merch etc then decided it was time to go home. The taxi driver on the way here had assured me I could get a taxi back to the city centre dead easy but when I phoned the number he gave and asked for a taxi to Levenshulme, I was given a reaction not to dissimilar to having asked directions to the bit in Aliens where the queen is reproducing mair aliens.

With fear and hallucinations approaching, I chartered a plan to get a bus and just my luck, three came along at once. I get on the packed bus (it was 11pm on a Friday night in Manchester) and felt instant panic. I have never seen so many guns in my entire life. I had heard that gun crime was bad in Manc but never expected to see it in public. There was a police type guy on board to try and keep the peace, but when one of the kids starts puffing a comedy-size jazz fag, he sat in his place and tried to ignore the sweet smell that was wafting through the bus. At one point, one of the gang guys started aiming questions at me. Petrified, I answered, fearing the worst, but the guy seemed to appreciate the facts that I had a guitar and that was Scottish and the lads cousin stays there so him and his posse (yo) didn’t bother me. But they did hook the polis on the way off the bus.